


Our Man In Berlin

by VoluptuousPanic



Category: Babylon Berlin (TV), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Bad Cops, Berlin (City), Black Country, Crossover, Drugs, F/M, Sexy Eye Bags, Weimar Republic Obsessions, crossover insanity, nightclubbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoluptuousPanic/pseuds/VoluptuousPanic
Summary: Arthur Fucking Shelby goes to fucking Berlin and it all goes pear-shaped. This all likely occurs through a fish-eye lens from Arthur's POV, soundtracked by Sleaford Mods. And why stop at a two fandom crossover when you can have THREE: viz. Peaky Blinders, Babylon Berlin, and Philip Kerr's Bernie Gunther.





	Our Man In Berlin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wysiwygot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wysiwygot/gifts).



> We're going to _completely_ ignore the fact that it is established in Kerr's _The One from the Other_ (Bernie Gunther book #4) that Gunther didn't learn English until after WWII, because when Bernie walked into the room with Gräf all canon bets were off. I didn't even know he'd be coming to the party! Also, on the _Babylon Berlin_ front, I'm still partially with the book canon. It just works better when Anno is actually dead and stays that way. Additionally ignoring the fact that John was bumped off before this even happens. 
> 
> This is what I was actually working on before the below schmoop diversion, making good on a threat I made months ago in a fanwank thread with a friend. When this started, I hadn't written fic in over a decade. This likely isn't a road back, but it's been a welcome diversion from a rough patch at work.

The Kraut was small. Not as small as his Tommy, but the smallest man in the room. Not much bigger than the cheeky bit of tail with the steno pad who'd gone away and come back twice over. Something about the girl reminded him of Ada and it seemed like she was in on whatever divine joke was playing out. And it was crystal fucking clear that she and Kommissar Kraut were fucking each other. That much was true though it seemed lost on the rest of the jerries who’d come in and out and back again. But this Kraut. After a lifetime with Tommy, Arthur didn't know how or why anyone could ever write off a small man or assume that he wouldn't righteously fuck your shit up. Not the little big man sort of small man, but the kind of calm little bantam who comes into the ring to wear you down when all you've got is a one trick haymaker. Lighter, faster, smarter, neater. It's what was happening now. Little Kraut sitting there with his fresh haircut and wide tie and shoulder holster with the sweet little Walther Arthur’d like to take a look at under different circumstances. Calmly leafing through papers, referencing a small English dictionary, occasionally looking at him, looking at John, sizing them up, same as Tommy did when he'd got a cob on about something and called some poor bastard in just to sit and feel bad about himself. 

The little Kraut laid out their passports and papers, neat, side by side. "Artur Shelby, Djon Shelby...aus...Shelby Brüder Limited." He was quiet like Tommy, like Tommy was when he didn't want you see that he already knew how few cards you were holding. This was all going pear-shaped. "Was machen Sie hier?" 

"Just business." John blurted. Sounded like a fucking kid. John corrected himself and said it again in jerry so the Kraut could understand. Arthur caught that much. And when had John learnt to speak fucking Kraut? Suppose that came with the territory as a signaller. Same way Tommy learnt it in the tunnels. All Arthur learned in the war besides killing was how to tell a whore to suck his cock en français. 

Arthur folded his arms across his chest and watched them. No point in listening, so he leaned back in his chair and scratched at the stubble on his neck. The Kraut didn't look, but did have the courtesy to slide a packet of fags and matchbox across the table. Arthur took one and stoked up, then had a look at the brass matchbox. Engraved: Anno 1918. Arthur'd held enough of these in his hand to know it was made from a shell casing. This Kraut. Small enough for the tunnels too. Now that realization rubbed Arthur the wrong way. He set the matchbox down again, neat like their papers. 

"Where were you, Kraut?" Arthur roared. His interruption won a look of frustration. But Arthur hadn't expected John's mug to match. 

John looked confused for a tick, then turned back to the Kraut and said some words. "Wo...wo. Fuck it. Somme? Verdun? Flanders?”

"Merckem." the Kraut said, then more words. He reached for the matchbox and returned it to the watch pocket in his waistcoat, offering Arthur no further attention. 

John nodded. They seemed to have reached some kind of understanding and shook hands across the table. Arthur was left out of it. John lit a smoke while the Kraut stood and looked at their papers again, then gathered them into a pasteboard folio. He stepped to the door, opened it, and said something to someone outside.

“He was at bleeding Ypres, Arthur, and buried his brother there,” John said then and sighed. “The whole bloody war, what he saw of it. Wasn't in until '18. We were in a different fucking hole in the ground by then." John shrugged and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “There's someone coming who’s got better English.”

Arthur snorted and crossed his arms again. “Your jerry seems right fine, Our John.”

The Kraut beckoned to someone outside. The calm, almost gentle way he spoke made Arthur uneasy. “Bitte. Kommen Sie.” The Kraut opened the door further, admitting Finn and Isaiah who Arthur suddenly realized were grown men now. They were followed by a uniformed officer, the little dolly what reminded Arthur of Ada together with another steno girl, a big curly haired nonce looked like he might be a poofter, and that piece of shite plainclothes officer from the Adlon. Kraut and Kraut shook hands. 

“Officer Bernard Gunther, Vice,” said our man from the Adlon.

“Kriminalkommissar Gereon Rath, Homicide,” the little Kraut introduced himself at last. So Rath outranked the new man. 

“Freut mich dich,” Gunther said. Gunther was young too, and as big, heavily built, and ruggedly athletic as Rath was compact and citified, the kind of man Arthur could have a go at, and he'd have done back at the hotel, given the opportunity.

They made a pretty picture of new Kraut prosperity all in a row, Gunther and the nonce who introduced himself as Assistantkommissar Gräf flanking little Rath on the other side of the big table. All fresh pastel striped shirts and fat ties and tweed bags and waistcoats buttoned up so tight they were like to shit themselves. They were young men, the lot, cocky and self-assured as he and Tommy and John were after they'd come home, but their vocation made them legitimate like. This made Arthur feel old and cornered. John rose from his chair and took a lean against the wall to let Finn and Isaiah in at the table where they sat quietly and fiddled with their hats. Blades had been taken off the bills at some point. Arthur hadn’t seen Finn look quite so scared in an age. Isaiah too. If anyone'd touched a hair...

The new steno girl wrote. Gräf and Gunther did the talking. Arthur preferred Rath’s pidgin, but hated the way Rath sat there, back from the table a little, legs crossed at the knee, folio balanced on his thigh, casually lighting another smoke. Just like Tommy. The other steno girl, the one like Ada, lit up too after taking the matchbox Rath offered without taking his eyes off the proceedings. For such a soft looking little fuck Rath was a right bastard, but likely had his weaknesses like any man. And then there it was with bells on and Arthur snorted, watching it play out when Rath snuck a touch to the girl's wrist when she passed the matchbox back to him. The girl didn't break, but she did touch him. Rath's eyes slipped closed and he relaxed for a tick when she patted his shoulder before crossing the room to stand next to John and make him look as nervous as Rath looked undone. And then Rath was opaque again. Arthur didn't much like seeing that. Reminded him of Tommy. Rath's eyes met his. Arthur didn't much like that either, didn't like being seen, and he looked at the girl again. So much like Ada: smallish and dark in plusfours and a little jumper, skinny without much shape to her, hair shingled too short for his taste, pretty but plain and dun colored, probably lit up like Louise fucking Brooks when she put on her glad rags and a bit of slap. Likely knew how to take care of a man with a lot on his mind, and something about the way she carried herself said that man'd have to meet her halfway. This girl was hard like Ada. Like Pol. Like Grace too. Possibly for the same reasons. Arthur didn't much like thinking about that either, because that made Rath yet another man who had something Arthur didn't, even with Linda at home with the babe in the new house in Birmingham proper. Weren't bloody fair. 

Gunther took the file from Rath and paged through the contents. Unlike the other men, Gunther still wore his hat inside: a rain-stained fawn-colored fedora, casually pitched back on his head to reveal a shock of pale blond hair shorn high and tight over virile features. “Shelby Brothers Limited of Liverpool, Great Britain," he said. His English was as good as any Arthur'd heard during the war. "And you are Arthur Shelby, Jr.," Gunther made eye contact with Arthur. Arthur looked back with a snort and crossed his arms again, but Gunther moved on to the younger men. "...John Michael Shelby, Finnian Shelby and Isaiah...Jesus. Mr. Jesus, what is your relation to the Shelby family?” 

Arthur's hackles went up then. That weren't fair either, picking at the one who's different. Isaiah might as well be a Shelby. Was a Strong at least on his mum's side, same as him and Tommy and John and Finn and Ada. Was like a son to Arthur too, until Billy came, and by then Isaiah was his own man. A boy like Isaiah needed someone to guide him, what with his own dad ranting and raving in the trenches and the road alike. “He’s family, Kraut.” Arthur growled.

“Shut it, Arthur,” Finn snapped, rewarded with a finger pointed in anger by John, as if they'd see one another back at the book and John would take it out of Finn's hide. John had never hided anyone, least not the way Tommy could. And Finn had never needed a hiding. Arthur watched Rath watch them, Rath's big, heavy eyes moving from John to Finn and back to Isaiah. Rath leaned forward to the table to flick ash from his cigarette, then back in his chair to take a long, slow drag. 

Gräf spoke then. “Messrs. Shelby, we have posed a question to Mr. Jesus.” He was a large and gentle looking man, like an overgrown child. Soft-spoken, mincing and exact in that way that all these Krauts seemed to be, that way that made everything said sound cruel and kind at once. That Arthur couldn't read a Kraut by his tone was also something he didn't much like. Always felt like they were trying to get one over on him, make him feel stupid.

Isaiah stammered. “My dad’s a preacher in Small Heath, sir. Served with the First Warwickshire Yeomanry with the Shelbys. I’ve been with Shelby Brothers since I was big enough to run numbers.”

Rath leaned forward again, took Gräf's pencil and wrote something in the margin of one of the papers in the file. Gräf added his own scribble in response and showed it to Gunther. Rath nodded, satisfied. 

Gräf redirected. "Mr. Finnian Shelby, we are aware that this...delegation is not the entirety of the Shelby Brothers enterprise. We would appreciate further description of the organization."

Finn stammered too, but shook it off, finding Shelby swagger somewhere in him to look at Gräf head on. "There's me, and Tommy and John and Arthur. Arthur's the eldest, but Tommy calls the shots. And there’s our sister Ada in London. And cousin Michael. He and Lizzie do the front office books and run the public business with Tommy. And Aunt Polly and John's wife Esme run the numbers, betting books, small loans, and petty cash back office with Isaiah and me." He gave them too much without giving them anything at all, like Tommy would, Arthur thought. And Arthur was struck with how much Finn looked like Tommy did long ago, before Arthur went to Turkey, before they were all in the mud together with these Krauts in France. 

“Please describe the public business.” Gunther prompted. 

"We’re in import export." Arthur added to get control of the situation again, before Finn could say any more or the nonce could keep nonceing. To set things right before the rug was pulled out from under all of them. Tommy would have been cooler, and if he were here, Arthur would know his place. Being pinched should have been on their agenda, and Arthur half thought Tommy had anticipated this whole song and dance to test Finn's mettle, to see if he and John would just do what they were bloody told. Go, talk to a man, look at a warehouse, have a night or two on the town without attracting undue attention, and scupper back to Hamburg to get on the boat.

"We know what import export means," Gräf countered, each soft little staccato syllable like a tap of a hammer that wore at Arthur. "There are import export organizations in Berlin as well, Mr. Shelby. Germany also has a lovely port at Hamburg, and there is another nearby in the free city of Danzig, both of which we understand that the Shelby brothers of Shelby Brothers Limited toured before arriving to Berlin where they have since visited our fine stock of warehouses and rail transportation available from Ostbahnhof and have made various...connections with local organizations, establishments, and persons known to us. We have taken the liberty of making some preliminary investigation into the nature of Shelby Brothers Limited and understand that it is a family business with multiple...how do you say...revenue streams?” the nonce explained and passed another file to Rath. 

Rath opened it, leafed through the contents as slowly and calmly as he'd fingered Arthur's and John's papers a few minutes before, held it where the steno girl could see what was there too. She asked a question, whispering into his ear, and Rath nodded at the file, like a penny had dropped and passed it back to Gräf, looking like the bloody cat what ate the canary. Dolly said the same to Gräf and Gunther. The Krauts murmured amongst themselves for a moment or two. Arthur watched John’s face. Kid had never had a poker face. Saw his eyebrow go up and his jaw set at a word now and then: Ringvereine. Waffen. Korn. Pferde. 

It was Gunther's turn. "We also understand the the public revenue streams include shipping and receiving and associated warehouse brokerage, the licensed and taxed manufacture and sale of spirits, and the breeding and brokerage of racing horses and dogs, but that other revenue streams may involve the illegal and untaxed sale of spirits to organizations in America, the sale of arms and armament to various organizations in Ireland and Northern Ireland as well as certain dissident political organizations and foreign exiles throughout Great Britain, and local protection...services. Is that correct, Mr. Shelby?"

"Wouldn't say it was incorrect," John answered. He finished his cigarette and stepped to the table to stub it out in Rath's ashtray. "Not saying any more without Tommy or a solicitor."

Gräf spoke again. "Your brother Thomas has been reached by telephone in Hamburg to discuss particulars, as he appears to have greater clarity about your presence here than you do at present. The conversation was both enjoyable and illuminating. All cards, one could say, have been laid on the table. We understand that Thomas ist der Leiter, Arthur is the enforcer, and that you, John..."

"I drive, mostly." 

“Bist der Autofahrer.” Gräf concluded and wrote something.

Rath's and Gunther's mugs were red as beetroots from holding in laughter. Wouldn’t be laughing if Tommy were here. Rath briefly held a hand over his face and choked it down to say something sharp, all serous again. Gunther translated, as Rath went on. “What we're attempting to ascertain, Mr. Shelby, is why a dead callgirl has turned up at the Adlon while the Shelby Brothers of Shelby Brothers Limited are in residence and why two other working girls, both known to us, both rather valuable informants, both seen at Haus Vaterland in the company of Messrs. Finnian Shelby and Jesus, have been beaten black and blue.”

"Had a bit of plum, did you?" Gunther asked. 

“Weren’t us,” Arthur said.

“Wir haben Augen.” Rath offered, then continued to yammer. Gräf jumped in to make sense of it.

“Of that we’re aware, Mr. Shelby, as your...romp through our city has been less than discreet. Both Vice and Homicide are interested in the nexus between Shelby Brothers Limited and other similar...shall we say, family organizations in Berlin and Brandenburg that may be connected. We are also interested in why your organization would choose to venture east when the ports of Liverpool and London are at your disposal. Your organization is, simply, a subject of keen interest to multiple divisions of the Berlin and Hamburg police. Organized crime is very interesting.” 

Gräf and Gunter curtly snapped their folios shut, as if the entire proceedings had been rehearsed. “You are free to go, Messrs. Shelby and Mr. Jesus, but remain under surveillance.” Gunther said. He righted his hat and suddenly looked as tightly wound as Rath.

“You telling the Peaky Blinders to mind our Ps and Qs then?”

“Ja. Genau,” Rath answered, his voice as soft and measured as Tommy's would be if he were telling you to get fucked. He sucked down the last of his smoke and reached across the table to stub out the butt in the ashtray in front of Arthur. Rath stood and exhaled through his nose as he donned his little jerry tweed jacket and set his hat on his head.

Arthur spat on the floor as Rath passed his chair on the way out of the room. The little Kraut clipped him on the back of the head with the flat of his hand like he was a kid. John laughed. 

***

"Half the bloody day, Tom," Arthur roared into the ice bucket. "Half the fucking day to sit around a table and answer fucking questions they knew the fucking answers to so that they could fucking tell us they've had their fucking beady Kraut eyes on us since we got off the fucking train."

Tommy tilted his head. "Go on, have a drink, Arthur."

"And that's all you fucking say? 'Go on, have a drink, Arthur?' Trinken wir etwas, mein Herren," Arthur groused with no pretense of pronunciation beyond his own Black Country drawl. Arriving back at the Adlon in early evening to find Tommy sitting calmly and smoking on the divan was the worst possible outcome of a very bad day. 

Tommy shrugged. On a train all day and didn't even look tired. Arthur looked like shit. He helped himself to ice with a bare hand and poured four fingers of whiskey into a glass and drained it in a single go. 

***  
Hours later and the Peaky fucking Blinders were in high style, occupying a tufted velvet corner booth at some place without a sign but festooned with dusky lasses with their tits out. Less Tommy. Tommy leaned against the bar with Rath. He'd take his watch out of his pocket, look at it now and then, put it back, light another fag. Rath would do the same, look at his wrist, light a fag. Neither'd had a drop to drink aside from pilsner, but fucking hell did they talk. Tommy who didn't suffer smalltalk with anyone, lit with a smile and laughing at something the little Kraut said. Arthur didn't like it. Because aside from this little display, Arthur was having a right nice time and was considering letting what happened earlier in the day slide. Rath knew where to take a man and seemed to know the girls here, those that were girls, and those who might not be. Arthur was cottoning to the fact that in Berlin it didn't much matter, and that there might be something to the idea that if a man were to pay for a cocksucking it might to do to have it done by a bird who had one too. But he was also cottoning to the fact that it didn't much matter where a man was, if it was about business, he was like to be kept waiting. Arthur also didn't like how cool Rath was. How focused. Didn't like the little manic twitch that came over him now and then. It was like his own manic twitch. Arthur rubbed at his nose and snorted in a deep breath. He could still taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and chemical with a tang of blood. There was like to be more at hand if he knew where to reach. As if magicked up, a blonde bird in white tie and tails, hard and nattily spiffed as a boy, appeared with a tray of the stuff and other delights. 

Hopped up again, Arthur remained on watch, his line of sight as clear as if he'd had bloody binos. At last a Chinaman in a bowler, bigger that Rath and Tommy, showed. Rath and Tommy screwed their hats back on their heads and followed him out. Arthur didn't like that either, but he knew how Tommy was, and that following him would lead to the sort of hiding Arthur would rather avoid. Sort that came with being shut out completely, the sort that meant there'd be nothing to keep quiet about, because Arthur'd be told nothing at all, instead of learning what he needed to know when he needed to know it. Had to trust Tom about that, now that the Shelby brothers were a legitimate enterprise. Tommy returned an hour later to join them.

"What is it, Tom?" Arthur asked, low so no one else could hear. He caught John's eyes on them.

"Nothing at the present, Arthur. You and John will know when I do." Tommy raised his hand and motioned for another round.

"All right then," Arthur groused.

Three more nights they repeated this bloody charade at different venues, Arthur and John on watch, Finn and Isaiah running wild like savages aflame with whatever they could put into themselves and agawk at the visual stimulations and tangible what-have-yous. Rath and Tommy came and went, sometimes leaving, Arthur reckoned, to go to private room the likes of the Shelby parlor at the Garrison, though these places in Berlin were nothing like. Arthur would go as far as to say Rath knew how to show a gent a good time, but that there was something that went deeper than cocaine twitch that showed Rath was being cautious, keeping himself on a short leash. Like that charming moment at the station with the steno girl, Arthur saw the real Rath rise to the surface on the second night of the three when Tommy returned alone, but cool and unbothered, and Gunther arrived in black evening dress, hair stuck down like palomino patent leather, for a changing of the guard that Tommy accepted and they trundled out together to move to Josty. Gunther shoved a ten mark note down the flat chest of the prettiest girl there, who laughed and chucked his chin with a wink. Just past them on the dance floor was Rath with his dolly from the station, snugged up like they were the only bloody people in the room, doing something that wasn't quite dancing and wasn't quite fucking while the Negro band dirged on. If he wanted to get at Rath, he'd have to get through her, but something about her told Arthur he'd find himself holding an armful of his own guts were he to try anything. Other trouble was, he didn't want to get at Rath, but the exercise of thinking about getting at any potential adversary or associate was never time ill spent. 

Arthur watched them for a tick, half hoping he'd be seen, watched Rath spin the girl around the floor, push and pull and overtake, as natural as anything. The git could dance, and so could the steno girl, and she stopped to kiss him in a way that made Arthur about face and head for the door. Arthur felt that same hot knife of envy that'd been there at the station. Linda wouldn't dance at all. Said it was a gateway to sin. So was being kissed like that, and any association with Rath would always be a liability if he wouldn't let his dolly in on the machinations. At least Linda had that bit down. But this girl wasn't like Linda. She was like Polly, and they all knew what happened to Mr. Gray was the moment Arthur, Sr. had to let Pol in, and that was when everything changed for the Shelbys. This enterprise in Berlin wasn't made for change. It looked more like one that Rath wanted out of, but where he was biding his time, enduring the ever present threat while reaping the benefits, keeping business and pleasure separate until external conditions offered a way out, where he'd probably just marry the girl and have a hundred perfect little brats. The Krauts were funny like that. Arthur'd seen Tommy come out clean more than once and land on his feet, but the outcome always set up another deal with a bigger fish in a bigger sea. Weren't splashing about in the cut anymore. 

Rath arrived later, buttoned up as ever, though it was clear to Arthur he'd been thoroughly unbuttoned. The seven of them--Arthur and Tommy and John and Finn and Isaiah and Rath and Gunther--tucked into a proper nosh, with proper wine and proper trimmings and afters some time around dawn, the second dinner of the evening, a bit late for Arthur's taste, but it was Berlin and the lights never seemed to go out, service never stopped, and no one seemed to sleep. 

The final day and night of the Shelby Spree Sabbatical were no more clear to Arthur. Tommy'd been gone with Rath most of the day. Rath had arrived only a few hours after putting up from the night before, as sharp and fresh as Tommy. They took coffee together on the balcony of the suite overlooking Unter den Linden and Pariser Platz. Arthur shuffled in unshaven in a hotel dressing gown and socks and Tommy tilted his head in invitation. Arthur poured a glass of whiskey neat and joined them.

"Going to Brandenburg, Arthur," Tommy offered. 

Arthur had a sip of whiskey and savored the burn. He took Rath's offer of a smoke and nodded in thanks, passing the packet of Overstolz and the brass matchbox back to him. The tobacco was better than what'd been on offer at the station. "What for?"

"To see a man about some cognac." Tommy drained his coffee cup and lit a fag then. Rath poured more coffee like a proper butler and passed it to Tommy like it was something done on the regular. "Mind the shop, Arthur, and tell John where we've gone. If anything goes pear-shaped, call Gunther at the station. The concierge can help you. If anything goes worse than pear-shaped, go back to Tausend, where we were last night. See Pauli, the girl at the bar. She knows what to do. Keep it respectable, Arthur. This is a diplomatic mission. Should be back by dark." 

Arthur nodded. It was the sort of mission he was charged with more and more often. Sitting on his hands while Tommy went alone, but it's all there was to do to keep things safe for Linda and the babe. "John driving?" Arthur asked, bristling a bit when he felt Rath's eyes level on him. He looked back and caught a nod of recognition from Rath. Their score was even, whatever it was. Arthur let it go. 

"I am," Rath said then. "John stays here." 

Arthur didn't like it, but agreed out of the high probability that his unease came solely from exclusion. This was a family fucking enterprise, and family was left out in favor of a Kraut. He supposed Tommy had his reasons, and that those reasons were about this Kraut way of doing business, shaking hands and looking at papers and being bloody polite. Arthur knew how to wave his fist in some tosser's face, and if that didn't work, wave a gun, which he didn't have. Far as he knew, only Rath was carrying, and had only that little Walther. The light came on then, and Arthur knew that Tommy was here because Arthur and John had already mucked up things with the first night. That Tom had come to manage clean up for all of them and set up regular housekeeping through appropriate channels. This was the new line of Shelby business, and Arthur didn't have the skills. John would be briefed as needed for quick and clean getaways, liaising and greasing palms, and Arthur...Arthur was the rabid cur on a chain, all spiffed up for the guests. At least fucking Michael wasn't here, though Arthur supposed he would be eventually, probably alone as an envoy to the fucking bank. It was just as well. He and the little Kraut would like each other. 

That night was the finest yet, at a big place all lit up with a bright neon marquee and a stage with a floor show and confetti like bleeding New Year's Eve all over again. It was only a Friday in June, but Arthur took it as it came with the champagne and schnapps, changing himself into a fire hazard before Tommy and Rath arrived. The uneventful way the day had played out--sleeping it off at the Adlon with a little touch from a girl who came by before dinner time, complements of Pauli--told Arthur that worry was futile, that all was well and truly well. They all had girls that night, fancy ones with slap and spangles--all but Tommy and Rath. Tommy still faithful to Grace, though only Tom and god knew why since she was a year in the ground. Rath likely faithful to his steno girl. It was another thing Arthur couldn't suss out, never understood about Tommy, how he'd mix up having a woman's love and having a rut, always climbing in all the way, even when it was just about using some cunt to get to someone or something, when he could have just stick his prick in and had done. Arthur supposed Rath was the same way, and knew it. 

***

In the morning, Arthur passed a wad of cash to the girl in his bed after he watched her dress. "Vielen danke," she purred and kissed him. He probably ought to have counted, but it didn't much matter since they were on their way later and first class rail to Hamburg was already bought and paid for. Arthur had a bath and a shave and shoved himself into the clean suit and shirt that the hotel had seen to. He packed his things and left them by the door in easy reach for the bellman, and made his way through the parlor to Tommy's suite where Tommy was having full breakfast alone with a cigarette.

"So what's the lay of the land, Tom?" Arthur asked by way of good morning. 

"I like him, Arthur. Just like us, there's a part of Rath that's still in Flanders. He's as brittle as Danny Whizz-Bang was, Arthur, and therefore is compromised in a way have experience dealing with. It's not on you to exploit, Arthur. He's not fond of you either, but he can be trusted, and he knows that about you as well. He gets on well with me and our John. Gave us Marlow and the Armenian, who are wary but trust him, too. And he hand delivered a legal contract for rye with Kempenski through a vintner in Cologne who’s also selling to us, all by the book. We're on the up and up, Arthur. Shelby Brothers Limited is now a continental enterprise with a door to the East, without ever setting foot in bloody France."

“Had to go halfway to Poland though. Between these tossers and the Italians in Chicago, you’re fighting a war on two fronts, Tommy. Never worked out for anyone. Krauts know that from experience.”

Tommy dragged off his smoke, exhaled like a little dragon, touched his tongue with tip of middle finger to catch a flake of tobacco. “Appreciate your candor, Arthur. Finn and Arthur are in the restaurant. You should take advantage. We leave at half ten.” Arthur looked down at the table where Tommy sat, to the neat stacks of papers and folios carefully reorganized for the voyage home to Small Heath. Arthur’s audience was over.


End file.
